At Your Service

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It’s been over a month since my first Vipassana course. In that time, I haven’t done much. In that time, chance – or fate, or karma, or however you want to call it – brought me to a century-old house in Dehradun, where the kindly proprietor fed me a healthy diet of vegetarian curries, and dreams. He filled my belly with tasty food and my mind with lofty plans, lots of plans. I was going to visit this temple and that monastery, learn this meditation technique and that yoga pose, attend this healing course and meet that exalted teacher. I was on my spiritual path and running full speed. I couldn’t see that I was trying to sprint a marathon, untrained. I didn’t recognize that I was bound to exhaust myself and fall short of the finish line. Even the complimentary magazine on the train to Dehradun knew I needed a break. My horoscope for March read, “Pay attention to your health. This is a month to slow down and just take it easy.” Suddenly, it made so much sense to stay put. There was a reason life had brought me to this town, to this house. Something told me to surrender to it.

For the first time in six months, I unpacked my bag. I had my own room with its own door, its own bed, and its own closet. I had a home. And I had a bike. There’s no better way to feel like part of a city than riding around it on a bike. It’s even better if the said bike is a pink Ladybird beach cruiser with a rusted wire basket. When that basket is filled with produce from the market it gives the impression that you really mean business. You have places to go, and you know how to get there (even if you don’t).

One day, while out for a ride, I passed the Cheshire Home, a nearby residence for the mentally disabled. I stopped in to see if they needed a hand, or maybe just a smile. I didn’t say anything about myself. I didn’t say that I loved children; I didn’t say that I loved to dance. The manager looked me in the eyes and smiled. She said, “You stay one month. You teach the children dance.” OK. The next morning I found that I was meant to teach the children the Macarena. Worse, I was meant to teach it to that awful song from the late 90s, “Barbie Girl.” I could teach the Macarena, but I couldn’t listen to that song, not once, and definitely not on repeat. My deepest apologies if the mere mention of it gets it stuck in your head – it has a remarkably unfortunate tendency to do so. I came back the next day equipped with the authentic Los del Rio tune. It was amazing to see the way the children reacted to the music. Many had a limited range of motion, but they wiggled and squirmed with all their heart. Even those confined to wheelchairs with more severe neurological disorders danced with their eyes. Their smiles lit up the room; their souls shined out. I was in the presence of pure beauty. And filled with gratitude.

After about a week of working with the children at the Cheshire Home it hit me that I wanted to be back in a classroom. I wanted to be teaching again. I started doing some research and, as it turned out, I was living in the education hub of India. I printed out a few resumes and made a plan to tour a few schools. But fate intervened the following day in the form of an invitation to the Vipassana center. It was the first day of a new course and my friend was going to help with the registration. He thought I might like to accompany him. I did.

Once at the meditation center, I went directly to the pagoda, to that sacred place of meditation where I had come to so many painfully beautiful realizations the previous month. I entered the cool, dark corridor and found all the doors to all of the cells closed and locked. Only one door stood wide-open, number 71 – my cell. A sign. I quietly closed the door behind me and sat to meditate. Afterwards, I joined the incoming students for the evening meal and noticed that there was no female server. I drank my tea with an uneasy feeling, with the thought that I should be helping, somehow. I went to the manager and inquired about the lack of a server. “Don’t worry,” he assured me, “Someone is coming.”

The next thing I know, I was called upon for tech support, which was a very new and amusing situation for me. Even more comical was that I was actually able to help. Some genius has developed an iPad application for the Vipassana course that allows the chanting and instructions for each meditation to play automatically, at the appropriate time. It’s brilliant. You might wonder what the big deal is. I’ll tell you. The majority of Vipassana teachers are rather advanced in years and, while they have a vigorous ability to spread love and compassion, their ability to stay awake during meditations isn’t as exemplary. Three times a day, the students must sit with a strong determination to not move for one whole hour. To a mind not yet used to not reacting, the last 15 minutes can be pure torture. Your entire body is crippled with pain and you’re sure that an hour must have passed already (your suspicions are further substantiated by the teacher’s snores). But you can’t open your eyes. You can’t turn your neck to check the clock. You must wait until you hear the magical words, “Bhavatu Sabba Mangalam” to be liberated from your suffering. This new application allows the teacher to sleep undisturbed, while the students meditate unconcerned that they are suffering longer than necessary. The teacher needed help understanding the new spangled technology, and I had been asked to give it to him.

When everything was set up and ready to go, the teacher asked for my name so that he could call on me during the course if he needed any help. “Oh, I’m not in the course,” I replied, “I just came to meditate.” With a look of kindness he said, “Stay and serve.” But I couldn’t. I had my plan to get a job teaching, and I’d only sat one course. A person must have a minimum of three courses under his or her belt before being eligible for dhamma service. “I’ll make an exception for you,” he insisted, “You can give good service with only one course.” On the seventh day of my first course, I knew that I wanted to serve. The course wasn’t even over, but I could already feel all the benefits Vipassana was bringing to my life, and I wanted to share them with the world. I wanted to help other people become established in the technique so that they, too, could spread the peace, harmony and happiness of dhamma. Here was my chance to do so, handed to me by the will of the universe. There was no doubt in my mind. I would stay and serve.

Dhamma servers do anything and everything within their ability to make sure the students have whatever they need to meditate without disturbance. I provided cushions and blankets. I opened and closed windows. I handed out extra helpings of curry and curd. I listened to women cry and fetched toilet paper to dry their eyes. One old lady even wanted me to pluck her chin for her. I was filled with pure joy as I held her soft, wrinkled face between my hands and yanked out the offending white hairs by their roots. I imagined that I was also plucking out her sankaras, her deepest-rooted cravings and aversions. Never have I felt more strongly that I was in the right place, at the right time; that I was doing exactly what I was meant to be doing.

Serving a course is equally beneficial as sitting in a course, although in a completely different way. As a student, all of your focus is concentrated on the reality of the moment as it pertains to your body. As such, all of your thoughts are focused on my, my, my, I, I, I. As a server, you put yourself to the side and focus all of your attention on the students. You send them metta, loving-kindness and goodwill, making a strong wish for their welfare and happiness. It’s incredibly liberating to wish liberation for others. You quickly realize that by helping others, you help yourself. With each passing day, my feelings of joy, love, and compassion doubled – and they have continued to grow even after the end of the course. I’m now motivated by a new purpose: to serve, everyday, for the rest of my life. Even if all I have to offer is a smile for a sad face, I’m at your service.

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Photos

Me and Aunty
I am a GIANT!